


The Rookie: Assignment 2

by animefreak



Category: LOVECRAFT H. P. - Works, Poltergeist: The Legacy, The Man From UNCLE - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Lovecraftian, Spies, Supernatural - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-12-31
Updated: 2014-04-05
Packaged: 2017-10-14 06:40:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/146454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/animefreak/pseuds/animefreak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just because she's too good to be true, does that make her a problem?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Round 1

“Your luggage arrived.” Napoleon pointed to the dark suitcase on the floor next to Illya’s desk.

She took a look at the latches as she reached for the bag. “Somebody unlocked this.” She met Napoleon’s gaze curiously. He, in turn, looked elsewhere. “Illya thought I might be hiding something in there?” she asked sweetly as she swung the case onto a nearby chair and opened it. She blinked at the contents, frowning as she carefully ran her hands through the top layer of garments. “OK, whose idea was this?”

Napoleon cocked an eyebrow upward. “What do you mean?”

“This isn’t my stuff.” Her tone implied an idiot would have known that. She looked at the tag. “Uhm, did anyone else notice this is tagged to San Francisco?” She then took a look at the ID tag. C.Yuconovich, Angel Island, San Franciso, California. “This isn’t my bag.”

“It isn’t?”

“No. It isn’t.” She pulled out several long black skirts, matching black button up shirts with long sleeves, black tights and a pair of black penny loafers. Underneath those items, things were stranger. There were several vials of some black substance, a velvet lined box with two strange looking symbols cast in solid gold and a trio of black leather bound volumes with locks. “Did you and Illya go through this or did you just notice that my pantsuit was missing?”

“We were expecting the clothing to be on the top.”

“And you didn’t notice that none of this stuff resembles anything I wore?” If he was going to admit that Illya was the culprit, now was the time. The Russian was not big on fashion. Napoleon was.

“Ah .. Well .. Illya opened the bag. I .. didn’t question his evaluation that the clothing you wore when you fell in the … whatever it was … wasn’t there.”

“Napoleon, why would I be carrying this stuff?” She gestured to the peculiar items.

“Perhaps the better question is when did you acquire a residence on Angel Island,” Illya cut in from behind her.

“I didn’t.”

He nodded to the tag. “That says you did.”

“Or it says someone else acquired my last name, probably on their way through an immigration station.”

“Improbable.”

“It’s more probable I have another place in San Francisco?” she demanded. Her mouth worked for a moment after that, but nothing came out so she threw up her hands in disgust.

“Or your name sake isn’t dead,” he pointed out softly.

That shook her. “Oh. Well, there is that. Wouldn’t she be in her 60’s?” She held up the blouse and skirt nearest her, shaking her head. The items were conservative but not… old? “Oh, I know. She’s a THRUSH agent!” she offered brightly with a wide smile. “Mind you, I’m not too sure about this stuff. Maybe the lab should test it.” With that, she swept the vials up and headed out of the office. It was just as well neither man left in the room could hear what she was muttering, even if it was in three different languages.


	2. Round 2

"You wanted to see us, sir?" Napoleon addressed his superior as they filed into Alexander Waverly's office.

The craggy eyebrows rose at the question, although he didn't stop puffing at the pipe he was trying to light. He observed the trio of agents taking seats around the circular table used for briefings and debriefings, noting that Miss Yuconovich took a seat discreetly one away from Mr. Kuryakin, while the older agents sat side by side. He nodded his greeting.

"It has come to my attention that Miss Yuconovich brought a sample to the lab which duplicates one found on the remains of an agent in California." If he wanted their full attention, he certainly had it. "You've heard of Tannenbaum, I believe." Napoleon's face answered him, while Illya looked more than usually inscrutable. "Mr. Tannenbaum was on leave at the time of his demise. We have reason to believe that his connection to the UNCLE is what caused his killer to choose him for an extremely unpleasant method of extermination."

A photo appeared on the screen behind Mr. Waverly's head. Apart from the ragged remains of clothing, there was not enough of Mr. Tannenbaum left to identify as human. Oddly, the lack of blood seemed to intensify the reaction to the photo rather than the opposite. Even Illya's stoic reserve seemed rocked.

"Do we know ... how?" Napoleon asked the obvious question.

"Mr. Tannenbaum seems to have been drowned and then mangled by some as yet undetermined agency. We have information linking this man, Professor Juan Lopez de la Vega Ayala to the discovery of the body." The mangle was replaced by a middle-aged gentleman of Latino heritage, well-dressed but badly groomed. His graying hair, somewhat like Einstein's, had escaped confinement and stuck out at odd angles. Where the father of Relativity Theory looked eccentric, this man looked dangerously crazy.

"Professor of?" Cheri asked in a soft voice.

"Anthropology. Dr. Ayala is a proponent of both pre-Colombian influence from South America in the North American continent and of contact by .. er .. "elder races"." He ignored Napoleon's barely suppressed snort of derision. "Dr. Ayala returned from South America several years ago with what he hinted was an incredible discovery. Since that time, he has produced several pamphlets of limited distribution continuing to hint at ancient and esoteric knowledge to be shared with only a few others."

"And THRUSH is always looking for information not shared with the general public," Illya extrapolated.

"We think Dr. Ayala may be allied with the San Francisco Satrapy. I believe you know Mr. Faversham?" The looks on their faces answered that question as he continued. "Which brings us to Miss Yuconovich's misplaced luggage and the bag that arrived here."

Three sets of eyes focused on Cheri. "Obvious tie-in with the substance. Was his in a vial or on .. uhm .. the remains?"

"His clothing was soaked with it."

"But it's not what he drowned in?" she added.

"No, it was not."

Cheri had one last question: "And he wasn't drowned in that goo stuff that got all over Napoleon's suit when he rescued me?"

"No. His lungs, what was left of them, showed signs of saltwater intrusion. Not unlikely in the area, even with the body found in the mountains, rather than near the bay." Waverly turned his attention to Illya and Napoleon. "I believe it would be wise to investigate both Miss Yuconovich's double, and the potential connection between Dr. Ayala and Mr. Faversham. Take Miss Yuconovich with you, gentlemen."

With that, they were dismissed, Waverly turning to his data feed as they left the room. He turned and looked after them as the door closed, his brows drawn together in thought. "Do try not to get the rookie killed," he muttered as an afterthought.

All three agents were wrapped in thought as they returned to the office. They were startled to find the clothes and suitcase tossed about the room as though someone had angrily tossed them about. The books were in shreds and the remaining box shattered leaving the two gleaming icons sitting in the remains. Cheri held her hands up as though to ward off the other two.

"Don't look at me. I was with you the whole time."

Illya scowled while Napoleon called security. They needed to know who was in the office while they were gone. "Where are the other vials?" he asked as he got off the phone.

"The lab. I left all of them there."

"Illya .."

The blond agent was out of the room at almost a run before his name was finished. Cheri followed closely. If Napoleon wanted her to do something else, he was too slow in getting the words out.

The lab in question was empty, which was just as well considering the scene of smashed glass and devastation that met their eyes as they entered the room. A lab tech, unaware of the situation, walked in behind them with a clipboard. As he bumped into Cheri, he looked up and his mouth dropped into an O of disbelief.

"What the Hell? ... Oh, sorry," he apologized and blushed. "I mean ... I just walked out of here. What the ... " He caught the redundancy factor and shut his mouth. He nodded as he recognized Illya.

"You just left?"

"I was gone maybe five minutes. I wanted to check some of these figures with Harve."

Illya took a look at the figures. "What's the analysis for?"

"A second vial of that fluid Miss Yuconovich brought in. The values are different, but the resultant fluid is the same ... I don't get it. I mean ... " He looked around the lab. "I don't know exactly what I mean, but the lab was fine when I walked out."

"You heard nothing?"

"Not a thing. And Harve's just down the hall. We should have heard something ...." The man looked completely bewildered.

Cheri met Illya's glance and shrugged her shoulders. "Security tapes?" she suggested.

The security monitor tapes revealed nothing. About two minutes of tape was snowed out in the lab. Agent offices were not routinely monitored and the hallway tapes for each location also showed snow gaps. Sensors around the building showed blockages of airflow through the ventilating ducts starting at the underground car park and returning there. Anywhere the intruder might have been caught on surveillance cameras, there was visual interruption.

“Why is everyone looking at me?” Cheri snapped finally as they finished sifting though the lack of evidence.

“Touchy,” Napoleon retorted.

“Well, yeah. I was with the two of you while the office got trashed and I was identifiably with Illya while the lab was being trashed. So why d’you keep looking at me like you think I have the answer?”

Illya sighed and leaned back in his chair. “I’m sorry.”

Cheri tried very hard not to drop her jaw. She looked at Napoleon, eyebrows raised in query. “Did he just say what I thought he said?” Illya rolled his eyes as Napoleon nodded, grinning. “Wow. Damn, you guys may just decide I’m worth keeping after all.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Illya broke into the euphoria.

“Yeah, neither would I,” she agreed with a laugh. “So, what are you sorry about?”

“You are correct. You could not have caused or orchestrated the damage to our headquarters without one of us knowing it. The bag’s owner, on the other hand ...”

“Why destroy? Why not just recover if you can get in and out of the building without being seen?” Cheri looked like she really didn’t like that idea as the word’s left her mouth.

“We go to San Francisco and find out.” His phone rang, interrupting anything else he might have said. The conversation was short. “We have a Miss Cheri Yuconovich residing on Angel Island in San Francisco,” he confirmed as he dropped the receiver into place. “She too lost a bag and has received the wrong one.”

“Tell me she doesn’t have her own distrusting picker-of-locks.”

“No. The bag is, according to her, unopened. She would appreciate the return of her case, preferably unopened.” All three refrained from looking at the pile of remains on the chair. “We will explain the circumstances when we meet her.”

“Sounds good to me,” Cheri agreed. She gathered up the remaining items that were not destroyed. “I’ll have this stuff bagged … boxed … something …” she said as she left the room.

Cheri took one look at their commercial flight and balked. “OK. D’you see anything odd about a commercial airliner painted black?”

The gentlemen conceded that a black commercial airliner was not something one saw every day. Napoleon pointed out that Braniff did some interesting things with their paint schemes to keep their image trendy, and it looked like the color in question was actually a dark blue, difficult to identify in the rain.

“Oh. Yeah. I guess. You’re sure it’s blue?”

His chuckle was reassuring as they made the dash across the asphalt to the stairs and into the plane. As they removed their raincoats, handing them to the tall, dashingly attired stewardess who greeted them with a professional smile and directed them to their seats.

Napoleon turned his best high wattage smile and urbane patter on as a second brightly clad young woman came by to ask their dinner preferences and ask if they wished reading material, pillows, blankets, etc. for the long trip to San Francisco. She seemed impervious to his charms, treating him with no more than the courtesy taught in the classes she attended before becoming a full time stewardess.

As they were seated separately, Illya received attention from the dark haired beauty that greeted them at the door. There the situation was reversed, the stewardess doing her best to get the passenger’s attention and Illya, in his usual manner, ignoring the stir he was creating. Cheri gave her a cheerful smile, requested a dinner and settled in for a long flight. All of them were adept at sleeping when the chance presented itself.

Illya drowsed in his seat, the occasional dream causing a frown to furrow his forehead. He was oblivious to the attention the stewardess wished to shower on him, leaving her frustrated and annoyed at the sparsely filled flight. While his partner was frustrating the stewardess, Napoleon was disgruntled to find that both of the stewardesses were apparently completely armored against his considerable charm. He settled in to his seat, plugged into the taped music available and waited for drinks to arrive.

While Illya was trying to rest and Napoleon was striking out, Cheri settled in to do some research on the gold items left when the box was destroyed. She pulled out four of Lovecraft’s books, made a face and plunged into what she had always considered fiction. Reading it as the man’s take on reality was disturbing. It was not encouraging to think there were humans crazy enough to worship the Great Old Ones (Lovecraft’s capitals) given that most of them were inimical to human existence.

About sundown, the flight hit turbulence. This was not the gentle, bump, ‘oh cute, my drink went up and landed in my cup’ again sort of turbulence that amuses; this was the sort of turbulence that makes motion sensitive passengers grab for the handy bag provided because they aren’t going to make it to the bathroom before heaving. It was also the sort of turbulence inclined to make dinner delivery difficult; reading headache inducing and sleep terminally disturbed.

Thus it was a trio of not so happy agents who alighted in San Francisco an hour later than anticipated between the turbulence and the unexpected headwinds encountered. Napoleon was sans any phone numbers of personable young ladies who attended them on the flight; Illya was sans anything resembling restful sleep and Cheri had not much more clue about things in Lovecraft’s view of the reality of the world than she had when she stepped onto the airplane. At the luggage delivery area she scanned the area more out of habit than the thought she might spot someone. Then she did a very slow scan before tugging on Napoleon’s suit sleeve.

“Yes?” he practically snapped, thinking longingly of a soft bed in a good hotel followed by a hot breakfast after a reasonable length of time.

“How many people were on that flight?”

He looked down at her uncomprehendingly. “What?”

Illya, joining them after stepping into the men’s room, looked around as well. “I am not certain there was anyone else,” he concurred thoughtfully.

“And we were seated apart from each other why?”

Napoleon pulled his ticket out and looked at it. “Assigned seating.”

“It’s customary not to seat us together when we travel. Difficult to discuss things, but also difficult to trap both or all of us.”

“OK, I’m just edgy from lack of sleep,” she conceded as she claimed her bag and waited for the other two to do so.

The hotel was good, but not the Hilton. Napoleon looked resigned as he signed in. They agreed to meet in a few hours when they were refreshed. Cheri was elected to contact the local office and confirm their arrival, as well as to contact her double and arrange a meeting for the exchange of items and explanations of what happened to the missing bag’s contents.

Cheri awoke suddenly with a feeling she was drowning. Coughing and choking she rolled off the bed to catch her breath. There was a fuzzy picture in her mind of a dark haired man looking grim as she submerged in a bathtub? There was an unreal sense of déjà vu to the experience. Soaked with sweat, she gave up on sleep and took a shower before confirming with UNCLE San Francisco their request for a car. She then called the number Napoleon gave her to contact the other Miss Yuconovich.

“Good Morning, this is Cheri. May I speak to Miss Yuconovich?” That was a very strange feeling. The response to her request was almost as strange. Mr. Moorecock, who had answered the phone, said that Miss Yuconovich was indisposed and he would affect the transfer. “I’m sorry to hear that. I can arrange to be there about 3pm, if that’s convenient?” No, it wasn’t convenient. He would be coming into San Francisco in an hour. Could they meet about 4pm, after he dealt with his business appointments?

Cheri settled the meeting time and cut the connection thoughtfully. There was something very wrong here. The other Cheri was indisposed. Mr. Moorecock did not want them visiting his island home. Correction, his and Cheri’s …. Oh, this was getting terminally confusing. Next thing they’d be referring to her as Cheri prime and the other as Cheri2. Her stomach growled. Food.

End Round 2


	3. Interlude 1

Interlude in a Hotel Restaurant

Cheri took the elevator down to the lobby and located the restaurant. Breakfast was excellent. She was just finishing when a shadow appeared over the table. She looked up expecting to see one of her partners. Instead, the looming shadow belonged to the man who denied being Royke Darnall. Without invitation, he took a seat next to her.

“Uh … hi. Whoever you are.”

The disturbingly opaque dark eyes met her gaze directly. “You were correct, Miss Yuconovich. Not many people know who I was. How did you?”

The laughter just bubbled up and wouldn’t stop for a few minutes. “Oh, dear. I’m sorry. Really. Not laughing at you. It’s just … shit, I have no idea how to explain this.”

He didn’t seem particularly disturbed by the laughter. The granite face softened a bit. “You are a puzzle, Miss Yuconovich …”

“Cheri.”

That got an odd look. Maybe he wasn’t used to being on a first name basis with the opposition. “Cheri,” he conceded. “Two places at once. Two histories. Two paths.”

“Two paths?” she brightened and grabbed onto the information source.

“You don’t know.” The concept seemed outside his comprehension. “You know about me, but not about your twin?”

“Namesake and look-alike, maybe. Not a twin.”

“Look-alike, then. You do indeed look alike, although she is thinner, perhaps older.”

“So you’ve actually seen her?”

“Yes.”

“Why are you telling me this?” She could think of a lot of answers, but the one she received wasn’t one of them.

“You’re not afraid of me.”

Her jaw dropped slightly. “What has that got to with … Why would I be afraid of you?”

This was not the answer he was apparently expecting. He stared at her for a long moment. “You know my name … “

“Royke Darnall, assassin, Irish extraction, wanted in … dozens of countries, even if they don’t know who they want,” she elucidated her knowledge softly. “I missed something?”

“The massacre at el-Dabari.”

“The massacre at … I’m a little confused here. I mean, it’s nasty, but…” She rapidly reviewed everything she knew about the massacre. Out of that debacle engineered by an idiot who did not understand the desert Arab logic and honor codes, came the Wind of the Desert and the loss of the Johannesburg Satrap almost to a man. Wiping out a tribe came at great expense. She was curious to know how THRUSH viewed this and was certain Darnall, as usual, followed orders, not giving them.

“The Wind of the Desert. The focal point of every disaffected Arab who does not follow Allah in the Middle East.”

“And a lot who do, but are tired of the Imans telling them what the Koran says. Literacy breeds change.”

He nodded. “What passed at el-Dabari is small compared to what I created that day.” He looked up surprised as she took his hand in sympathy.

“Did you give the order?” she asked seriously.

“No.”

“Not that I approve,” she assured him. “And if I’d been there, I’d have done my best to stop you. Probably succeeded, but just as others have done, you were “just following orders”. Hideous orders,” she caught a flicker in his eyes. Remorse? Oh, yeah. There was so much more to Royke Darnall than one expected. “You weren’t the only one there, you didn’t tell her to do what she does. You didn’t foment the trouble in the Middle East. It lives there. I mean …” She stopped and thought for a moment. “Look at the 6 Day War? What do you expect? Besides, when someone survives a massacre, you should expect crazy things to occur. Why would that make me afraid of you?”

He stared at her in complete wonder. “I don’t scare you. THRUSH doesn’t scare you. What does?”

“You don’t want to know. Look, this is fun, but to what do I owe the visit?”

“You need to be careful. Don’t laugh.” It was too late, she was already laughing. “Faversham has his eye on you.” There was no doubt the warning was sincere.

She sobered. “Faversham. He always does,” she agreed with a sigh. “Connection to my look-alike?”

For a moment he looked like he regretted coming. She was too sharp. “The man she companions is loosely connected to something called the Legacy. Mr. Faversham is interested in the Legacy, he is interested in Mr. Moorecock and his companion and he is interested in you. That’s a dangerous combination, Miss Yuconovich. We’ll be seeing each other again.”

She sat there sipping coffee refills for a while, mulling over what he’d said. THRUSH had a connection to the other Cheri. The Legacy? For cryin’ out loud. How much more tangled could her life get? She did some furious mental calculations and realized that Derek Rayne was a child of 13 now; a child only beginning to come into the psychic abilities that would shape his future. Winston Rayne was still alive, twisting his son’s life to suit the Legacy’s purposes. Not something she could do anything about, of course.


	4. Interlude on Angel Island

Interlude on Angel Island

As Caleb Moorecock, current owner of the manor on Angel Island, finished making the appointment with the woman who shared a name with his only companion, he turned to find that companion standing barefoot on the stairway behind him. She was wrapped in a thick terry cloth robe, her hair twisted up in a towel and she looked livid. He shut down his immediate reaction and just looked up at her. “Yes?”

Her voice shook with fury. “What the hell did you do that for?”

Reaching in a pocket to retrieve a pharmacy vial, he tossed it to her. “You took too many. I need you awake and functional. Now.”

“That’s the way you deal with it?!” Had there been more sibilants to work with, she’d have hissed at him.

He quashed any feeling of sympathy. The matter at hand was important. Between the visit from Winston Rayne trying to consolidate a deal for the house to be returned to the Legacy and her lost luggage, his day was not going well. “It worked.”

“It worked,” she repeated. “You son of a bitch!” she damned him and stormed silently up the deeply carpeted stairs. The tail of her hair not caught in the towel left a trail of water droplets on the carpet behind her.

He watched her go wondering if he had overreacted. It was too late to change the action now; he needed her with him when he reclaimed her luggage. He was hoping the similarity of name did not indicate a similarity of look and psychology. “Hurry up. I’m leaving,” he called after her just before a door slammed in the upper hallway.

Twenty minutes later, clad in funereal black, her hair twisted into a tight bun at the back her head the nearly anorexic looking woman joined him at the quay. As Angel Island was not connected to the mainland by a bridge, most of the inhabitants either took the twice-daily ferry or maintained water transport either on the beach or in the cove harbor. Caleb’s manor sat on one of the bluff’s overlooking the ocean. A winding gravel path led from the drive down to a well-maintained dock and the speedboat that would take them into San Francisco.

He looked her up and down. “Funeral?”

“Always a possibility.” She glared back at him.

With a sigh, he apologized for his behavior, before annoying her further by pointing out she had agreed to lighten her wardrobe. “Looking like an Iron Curtain refugee calls attention,” he pointed out and waited for the explosion. Her response surprised him.

“I am not comfortable in the additions to my wardrobe. I will wear them at the manor for a while to become more … I am sorry, I did dress to annoy you, but I cannot see what is fashionable as … as …” she stumbled to a halt, her look asking him to understand.

He put a hand over hers, calming the fidgeting fingers. “It’s all right. There is time. Dreams?”

She nodded. “Nothing I understood, just … terror.”

They passed the trip to the mainland in silence, each thinking their own thoughts. Both ignored the suitcase at their feet as though it was of no consequence.


	5. Round 3

Cheri checked her watch for the umpteenth time as she waited for 4pm to arrive. Both Illya and Napoleon had come through the lobby, nodded to her and gone on leaving her to wait for her doppelganger alone. She felt a small urge to wave Napoleon down and tell him of the afternoon meeting. There was a niggling thought in the back of her head that some support through this meeting might be appreciated. Instead, she let him go, thinking he’d be back soon enough and then she could tell him.

She was wrong. Neither man had returned when Caleb and the other Cheri walked into the lobby. His Cheri was something of a shock. Seldom had she looked in the mirror to see that emaciated a face and body. The total black on black ensemble did not help. Memories of concentration camps floated to the surface to be ruthlessly suppressed, although it did not keep her from wanting to know just exactly what the hell the man did to keep her that way. She mentally chastised herself for not stopping her mentors and telling them when the meeting was set. Avoiding her contacts for the moment, she dodged into the lady’s room and pulled out her communicator. Just in case anyone walked in, she held a small pad of paper in her other hand.

“Open Channel M.” M was private for the three of them to communicate without bothering home base.

“Solo here.”

“Where are you?” she asked sweetly.

“In the restaurant, finishing a sandwich.”

“Oh, good. Then you won’t mind if Mr. Moorecock, Miss Yuconovich and I join you, will you?” It wasn’t really a question.

“Ah …no.”

She had a feeling there was a regretful look with an attractive woman on the other end. Feeling foolish, yet relieved that he was there, she relaxed. “Thank you. I’ll be right … oh, shoot. I’ll be down in a few. I left the remains in my room. Cheri out.” She shut off the communicator as she moved out of the restroom. Maybe it was foolish, but she did not want to meet her alter ego alone.

The elevator was headed up as she reached the doors. With a philosophical shrug, she chose to take the stairs rather than wait, but that wasn’t what made her out of breath when Napoleon answered his communicator the second time. “Solo here.” He sounded annoyed.

“My room seems to be on fire. I’m going to investigate. You might want to bring Moorecock and company up. Yuconovich out.” Stowing the communicator, she moved forward across the thick Indian carpet to flatten against the wall a few feet from the doorway. She edged forward to take a quick look into the room.

The door hung by a single hinge, the wood around the deadbolt and the other hinges shattered by force. She couldn’t think of a single thing that could slam a deadbolt through a doorframe without removing the door entirely. Aside from the pale gray smoke filtering out of the room, she saw nothing. Decision time. Wait for Napoleon or go in alone?

Someone inside the room choked and coughed. Gun at the ready, Cheri stepped into the room. Dark legs on the far side of the bed located the source of the cough. Carefully, she moved past the bed to find Illya on the floor, half conscious and apparently suffering from smoke inhalation. Holstering her gun, she ran her hands over him to make sure there wasn’t any more serious damage before hauling him to his feet or dragging him from the room.

“Cheri?” Napoleon’s voice sounded from the doorway.

“Over here. Illya’s down. I don’t think he’s badly hurt, but the smoke isn’t doing him any good.” If she was surprised when two men hoisted Illya off the floor and carried him out, she didn’t show it, although she was tempted when she saw what had been under him.

“The case, it is gone? Yes?”

The timber of the voice was eerily familiar, although the accent was an odd cross of French and Russian. “It was already gone. However, these are still here.” She turned around to face “herself” holding the two gold items.

“The Elder signs ..” There was no mistaking the relief in the woman’s voice, followed immediately by a look that said ‘I shouldn’t have said that’. Two pairs of amazingly green eyes met for a moment before the black clad woman’s eyes dropped. “I ..”

“It’s ok,” Cheri cut her off. “I take it you’re Cheri Yuconovich, also.”

“Oui … Yes,” she answered with a bob of the head. Their eyes met again. There was no disguising the curiosity and worry in that look.

“Long story. I’m gonna check out the room. I’ll be out in a minute.”

The smoke dissipated as she looked for the source. There wasn’t even a scorch mark to indicate that any sort of heat had been in the room. Great. A splintered door and smoke with no source. Was that anything like the something that was invisible to UNCLE New York’s surveillance cameras? She joined the others in the hallway.

“No discernable source. How’s Illya?” The Russian in question said something rude in his native tongue. If he noticed the deep blush on Caleb’s companion, he didn’t show it. “If you’re trying to be discreet about your cussing, you flunked discretion. Too many of us understand Russian,” Cheri noted with a chuckle. He threw her a sizzling look. “Not my fault,” she pointed out.

“Let’s get out of the hall.” Napoleon slid a shoulder under his partner’s arm and was mildly rebuffed with Illya’s assertion that he could walk on his own now that he wasn’t choking on that foul smoke.

Downstairs, they all carefully avoided pointing out that there was a suspicious lack of interest in what was going on in Cheri’s room. While there might be no one in the rooms at 4pm, doubtful, apparently neither had the cleaning crew been at work or anyone else to notice doors being shattered and smoke where it shouldn’t be. Cheri’s suitcase was returned and Caleb tried to hustle his companion out of the hotel with no further trade of information.

“I wouldn’t,” Napoleon cautioned softly, his bland smile sharpening slightly.

Caleb measured the trio with a look and surrendered with a nod. “Not that you’ll believe me.”

“Try me,” Cheri shot back and received another sizzling look. If he was disturbed by the uncomfortable resemblance between his companion and the woman baiting him, it didn’t show.

He looked to her companions. “You’ve heard of the Legacy?”

Napoleon looked blank. Whatever he was expecting to hear, this question wasn’t it. He was only mildly surprised when Illya nodded. He gave a short explanation of the Legacy as an ancient organization that purported to fight evil on a quasi-religious/magical level. His tone of voice showed his opinion of such things, apparently equating them with witch hunts and the Inquisition.

“What happened in her room?” Caleb asked, forcing the issue. “What happened to the rest of the items in Cheri’s suitcase?”

“We were interested in asking you that,” Napoleon intervened softly. “And perhaps there is a … more private place to discuss this?” He looked around the lobby. There was no one overtly interested in their hushed conversation, but that didn’t mean no one was paying attention.

For a moment Caleb seemed disinclined to honor Napoleon’s request. Then, with a resigned look, he offered a retreat to Angel Island. “Why don’t you check out of the hotel and stay on the island? Once we’ve explained, you can get a good night’s sleep and be on your way in the morning.”

Napoleon looked to his partners for a consensus. After the problem with Cheri’s room, a sojourn on Angel Island could alleviate any further incidents with potential involvement of innocents. “Sounds like a good idea. We’ll check out. You have a car?”

“I’ll get a taxi. We have a boat.”


	6. Round 4

Angel Island was breathtakingly beautiful. Still largely woodland with a few interspersed big houses, an INS station and the remains of the World War II staging reservation, the cove side of the island was idyllic with pale sand beaches and blue water. Caleb expertly guided the boat around to the rockier shore side and tied up at the private quay serving the house. The climb to the house was steep, but not dauntingly so. Caleb advised them to leave their bags to be collected by one of his servants.

He paused with a slight smile. “One of the House’s people, actually. They all came with the place and will probably remain with it when we go.”

Napoleon’s ears pricked up at that. “You’re leaving?”

Caleb turned back to face him. “You’re aware of my connection to the Legacy. It’s tenuous at best. Their reasons and mine are not identical. They want the house back. I’m expecting a visit from their representative to negotiate the price.” He could read the surprise on Napoleon’s face at his apparent willingness to give up this place. Should he tell them about the gateway to hell locked beneath the foundations? No. “It’s not much farther.”

There was a Mercedes sitting in the gravel drive in front of the mansion. Caleb glared at the car. At least his Cheri didn’t always flinch from his glares these days. They walked into the house.


	7. Round 5

Napoleon looked around the room. His bag had been neatly unpacked, his suits and shirts placed in the capacious closet, his underthings placed in drawers and his portable shaving kit and accessories were in the attached bathroom. The opposing door indicated he shared the bath with someone on the other side. He wondered if it was Cheri or Illya. 

The door opened to admit Illya. He wasn't quite certain whether he was let down or relieved, nodding at his partner as the latter placed his own meager supplies on the vanity opposite Napoleon's things. The Russian scowled at Napoleon's luxuries. 

"I haven't lost them to the opposition so they're not showing up on my expense account," Napoleon pointed out with a chuckle. Napoleon's expensive tastes were a running joke at HQ given that so much of what he lost showed up on his expense account for replacement. 

"You should learn to be more frugal."

"You should loosen up." It was an old discussion for which neither really had the energy just now. "What happened?"

The pale eyes met his as Illya shrugged his shoulders. "As I said. I heard movement in the room. The door was already damaged." A puzzled frown crossed his face. "I was aware of suffocating. Something covered my head and shoulders, something cold and … " He seemed at loss for words. Another shrug. "I don't know. I saw nothing. Not a shadow, not a person. Then she was at my side and I was on the floor trying to breathe."

"There should have been some evidence."

"As in New York. There was not. Nothing except destruction and interference. I do not like this, Napoleon. There is something uncanny  
going on and I do not believe it is our duty to handle the supernatural, even if I believed in it."

That elicited a chuckle from Napoleon. "I admit, I'm not thrilled with this assignment. Did you find anything more on Ayala?" They went to Napoleon's room do discuss Illya's research. "Don't you like the room?" He asked as he watched Illya's critical gaze wander over the  
luxuriously appointed bedchamber. Between the antiques littering the place and the brocade and velvet draperies, hangings and covers, it was much as the place must have been in the early 1800's when it was the home of nobility. 

"Ostentatious show of prosperity. Over done."

"But beautiful. Now, what did you find out?"

Illya pulled an envelope from his inside coat pocket and shook three photos out onto the bed. "Prof. Ayala, much as we saw him at our New York briefing. His secretary/assistant Miss Jonel Hodvard Whately. Graduate student working on her doctorate in Anthropology, specialty Ancient Religions. An expert in several ancient, dead languages. She's currently working on a private translation of," he referred to his notes. "Die Vermis Mysteries, or something like that. Latin book of forbidden knowledge from what I can figure out, although I think the title is incorrect for Latin."

"Mysteries of the Worm?"

"She's also tried, without success, to request that the Miskatonic send her their oldest copy of the Necro … Nec .."He frowned at his  
notes. "Necronomicon. I do not understand what a tome about dead names is for, but she seems to want to get her hands on it very badly."

"Isn't that last one mentioned in Lovecraft's writings?" Napoleon pulled on his memory for more information. "Written by an Arab in the  
800's. Al Fariq … no .. Al .. Alladin?" He laughed at his partner's response. "Al Hazred, that was it. Not so much dead names, but  
alluding to … dead gods?" That was a strange thing to write a book about in the 800's, with Islam on the rise. Or perhaps not. In many  
ways, the rise of Mohammedanism, Muslim or Islamic worship did kill the old desert gods. But that wasn't, as he recalled, what Lovecraft  
had indicated as the topic of the book. "Cthulhu. I remember that much. Who's this?"

Jonel Whateley was a pale skinned, skinny yet faintly goiterous looking woman with heavy dark rimmed spectacles and unflattering  
clothing. The third photo was of a luminously pale haired girl dressed in the height of Soho/Carnaby Street fashion, the height of her skirt hem demonstrating why tights were so popular in England and the US. 

"That is Tamara Taakin. She's Dr. Ayala's ward/adopted daughter. And she's hardly a girl. She was a refugee from the pogroms just after  
World War II. Ayala was in the Carpathians seeking the remains of some pre-historic site possibly connected with the Chatal Huyuk site in Turkey. He found her hiding in the mountains, her entire tribe wiped out by soldiers."

"Tribe?" Napoleon looked at the picture, now seeing the lines of maturity the exuberant hair and style of dress had disguised. "There  
are blonde tribes?"

"Romany," was the curt response. 

Knowing his partner's connection with Romany or Gypsy tribes, Napoleon nodded soberly. "Ah. Why didn't he just turn her over to another tribe?" he asked, although he suspected he could see the answer. There were very few pale blondes in that area of the world. Slavery was still a reality and this young woman, especially as a child, would have been a major temptation. The purchase of the freedom of a family or a tribe to move on, cross borders, at the price of one child's freedom? Yes, he could see that happening, as much as it galled him to acknowledge it. 

"How does she fit in?"

"She's visiting. She spends most of her time in Los Angeles and London. Dr. Ayala requested that she return for the duration of this  
month. This lunar month," he corrected his first comment. 

"Lunar? Sounds like a confirmed case of lunacy," Napoleon quipped, but he didn't feel like laughing. The peculiar situation they'd survived in Maine came back with unnerving clarity. Although they'd avoided mentioning the sacrificial feel of the vat set up in Innsmouth, he was fairly certain that all three of them were aware of the subliminal implications. "Is this really our area of expertise?" he mused out loud.

"If Faversham and THRUSH are involved, yes," his partner answered, looking as though he would have preferred to answer in the negative. 

"Then we see what Caleb and his companion can supply in the way of information. I may not believe, but they do," he gestured to the  
photos. "Belief can act powerfully, especially when you start picking away at it."

Illya looked doubtful, staring at the photos. "Maybe the twins are a good sign," he muttered, bringing his gaze up to Napoleon's with  
another characteristic shrug of his black clad shoulders. "I'm hungry. Any idea when they serve dinner around here?"

Before Napoleon could answer, what sounded like a dinner gong rang.

End Round 5


	8. Round 6

While Napoleon and Illya were considering the competition, Cheri was taking a shower and dressing for dinner. Then she looked up her twin and made a face at the woman’s choice of clothing.

“It is current.”

“Well, yah. But it’s not … uhm … I’m sorry, but it’s so not you.”

A rueful look crossed the other’s face. “I do not understand fashion,” she admitted.

“That’s OK. I do.” With a happy grin, Cheri invaded the other’s wardrobe and went looking for something that would be more attractive on the other Cheri.

mfumfumfu

 

Downstairs, Napoleon and Illya conferred quietly while Winston Rayne tried to get their host to see reason. Cheri’s question about Faversham had netted unexpected information. Neither agent was aware of a Senior Faversham to be involved. First thing tomorrow, they would set the San Francisco office on that trail to see where it led. 

It was a pity Cheri had not broached the question of Dr. Ayala and his interests. Napoleon thought the reactions might have been as revealing as those about Faversham. He conveyed this to Illya as they perused the titles of the nearby volumes, most of them in old languages and not particularly encouraging in their tone. 

“Looks like Cheri’s Mr. Lovecraft would have been right at home here,” he quipped as he struggled through the interminable faded Latin title of another work.

Illya flicked a look at his partner before reaching for a slender volume beside the tediously titled one. “Very much so. I’m surprised he was not a member.”

“You’re sure he wasn’t?”

That gave him pause. “No,” he admitted. “I hadn’t thought to find out.”

Napoleon frowned at him. “I was kidding. But it’s obvious you aren’t. You really think ..”

He got a characteristic shrug from his partner. “It’s worth checking. At least we’re supposed to be safe from things that go bump in the night while we’re here.”

“Things,” Napoleon echoed. “Not necessarily people.”

“People we can handle.”

After a while, Winston gave up his attempts to get Caleb to see reason about the house and said good night. With a nod to his partner, Illya retired with a couple of books leaving Napoleon and Caleb with a very fine old brandy to share between them. In an unexpectedly hospitable move, Caleb lit the fire set in the ancient, granite faced fireplace. The gargoyles carved to either side of the entrance intrigued the agent and he said so, asking about both them and the house as he accepted another snifter of brandy and settled into one of the surprisingly comfortable leather wing chairs set at an angle to the fireplace.

He met the disconcertingly black gaze of his host who relaxed into the other chair, warming the snifter in his hands. The man’s gaze transferred to the brandy and then to the fire before he answered.

“Seris House was imported from Europe in the early 1800’s, before the craze for purchasing and importing old family homes started. Jordan Dane was no one and nothing before the War of 1812. Afterwards, he was rich beyond most human reckoning of the time. There is no record of how he attained that wealth. There is no record of why he chose this island to settle at a time when there were very few Anglos in the area. The gold rush was decades away, most of the local population was either Native American or Spanish, and Dane picked this island for his home.”

“Must have been hard on his wife.”

“His wife perished in the Washington fire.” Caleb’s eyes reflected the red and gold of the flames. There was something deeply disturbing about that look. Then it vanished and he resumed his story. “Dane lived here, solitary, for 40 years. His will left the House, furnishings, his remaining fortune and his full staff to the Legacy.” He looked up at Napoleon then, his face unreadable. “Do you know why, Mr. Solo?”

Napoleon felt he was missing something very important here. “There’s something inherently evil on the Island?” It was a shot in the dark. He sat on his shock as he saw it was a major hit.

Caleb smiled. “You don’t believe in spiritual evil much, do you?” he asked softly.

“Depends on your definition of spiritual. Most of the people I fight are what I would consider evil. They don’t need outside help to be that way.” Napoleon didn’t like the turn this conversation was taking, but he also couldn’t stop himself from wondering just where this was going. 

“Come with me. I can show you why Faversham, Rayne and the Legacy and Dr. Rudolfo Ayala are interested in acquiring this place.” Tossing off the rest of his drink, he smashed the glass in the fire as he got to his feet. 

There was no mistaking the challenge here. Napoleon watched his host for a brief moment, weighing the situation as he took another sip of his own drink. Caleb was tense, restless, but the danger he represented was not aimed at the agent. This was the tension of being too long the only one who knew of something that strained the boundaries of sanity. With a regretful sigh, he followed suit in finishing his drink. The brandy warmed him, but it did not dull his honed senses and reactions. Meeting Caleb’s eyes, he sent the glass into the fireplace and accepted the challenge offered.

Caleb led the way to one of the doors leading to the basement. “There are several of these, but only this one is warded as well as locked.” 

He handed Napoleon a flashlight, turned on his own and opened the door. It closed behind them with a peculiar feeling of finality. Caleb crossed the stone-walled room with the casual gait of long familiarity, ignoring the crates and boxes piled here and there. Spiders and beetles scuttled out of the faint electric light as they passed. Reaching a second, massive iron bound oak door, Caleb handed his flashlight over to Napoleon while he took care of opening several locks, then stepped back, intoned something that sounded Latin to the agent’s ears and waited. 

There was a shimmer in the air between the two men and the door. Force field? Napoleon thought as he handed Caleb’s light back to him. The door opened inward revealing rough cut walls. Were they in the bedrock of the island? They traveled about a quarter of a mile through the tunnel, the heat rising instead of falling as they walked. The tunnel opened out into a roughly 8 foot diameter area. To one side was another door, this one iron, cris-crossed with bars the size of small oak trees. 

As they approached he could feel heat shimmering off the door. The air was oppressive, dry and hot. His knowledge of underground caverns and passages told him this was wrong. It should be cold, humid or wet and shivering, not sucking the moisture out of him. The man with him was strung as taut as a bowstring.

“All right, what is it?” Napoleon’s voice was subdued, but it was apparently enough to disturb whatever lay on the other side of the door. He could feel the visceral reaction within to what lay beyond. He wanted away from that door, from the intelligence beyond and he knew without a doubt that there was an intelligence beyond that door; malevolent, inimical to humankind and terrible in the most ancient meaning of the word. “Hell,” he answered his own question.

“Now do you understand?”

With a rising tide of horror, Napoleon knew that he did. His life would never be the same because his understanding of the universe had just made a quantum jump beyond the bounds of reality. Shaken, he nodded. “If the Legacy gets the house, will that hold?” A part of his mind was looking at him very squiggly for even thinking that question. The rest of his more primitive being understood that the door was barred to keep that gate closed.

“Yes. They guard several of these gates. But this one is very old and very strong. They cannot hold it forever.”

“Can you?”

Caleb’s shoulders sagged as he shook his head. “I did not put the seals in place. I don’t know how to reinforce them. Much as I dislike Rayne, the house has to be returned to the Legacy.” He took a shaky breath. “Thank you. Sometimes I worry that it’s not really here, that I’m far less sane than I think I am.”

Napoleon cracked a grin at that. “I’m inclined to question both our sanities. But that door is there. And it’s like nothing I’ve felt before. Nothing. Let’s get out of here.”

Sleep would not be easy for either man. A burden shared is not always the solace one might like it to be.

mfumfumfu

 

Illya was waiting for his partner when he came upstairs. He looked at the shaken man and shelved his concerns while he wondered what Caleb had done. Napoleon shook his head in denial.

“It’s not Caleb.”

“Then what? Cheri ..?”

That got a laugh in response. “No. It’s something Caleb showed me. A really good reason not to let THRUSH get its hands on the place.” He paused while he undid his tie. “And he knows about Ayala.”

“Doesn’t surprise me. We base here?”

“I don’t think we have a choice.” He hoped his voice and hands were steady as he said that. From Illya’s lack of reaction, he presumed they were. Now, would his partner ask him the question he did not want to answer?

“What does he know about Ayala?”

“We didn’t get around to discussing it. He doesn’t want Ayala to get this place. Nor is he going to sell it to Faversham.”

“Then why all the … discussion with Rayne?”

“He doesn’t like Mr. Rayne.” Illya looked puzzled. Napoleon wasn’t certain how to explain it in English that would make sense to the Russian. “He’s teasing him.”

Illya muttered something Napoleon was certain translated as “Stupid Americans”. “So he will sell to Rayne and the Legacy. Faversham will not take that well.”

“I’ll try to contain my glee,” Napoleon answered with a slight smile. “Early up tomorrow. Cheri bedded down already?”

“The light’s off. What was that?”

Both men headed into the hallway before the banshee-like wail quite ended. Guns in hand, they weren’t quite to the source when Cheri’s door opened. She looked less startled than resigned as she walked up the hall to her double’s door. As the two men looked on, she opened the door and went in. They could hear a faint sobbing and strangled protestations in French.

Illya followed Cheri in, locating the light switch and illuminating the room. Compared to those he and Napoleon occupied, this one was Spartan. A resounding slap brought an end to the sobbing. With a gasp, the other Cheri was fully awake, huddled in the far corner of the room, her sheet twisted around her. The female agent pulled at the cloth, freeing the confused-looking woman and keeping up a stream of soothing commentary as she did so.

“You’re all right. You’re safe. No one here will harm you.”

Napoleon and Illya exchanged a look as Winston and Derek Rayne joined them. 

“What happened?” Winston snapped sounding irritated a having his sleep disturbed.

“We don’t know,” Napoleon told him, refusing to budge as the man tried to move past him into the room.

Cheri looked around at that. “She had a nightmare. Go back to bed. It’s fine.” She met her superiors’ inquiring gaze and shook her head slightly. “Really, she’ll be fine. She just needs a little time to settle down. Don’t you, dousha,” she finished with a Russian endearment aimed at the woman she was now holding in a firm hug. “It’s ok. You’re fine.” She threw a look of entreaty to the other agents.

“Like the lady says, the excitement’s over. Look, our host didn’t even stir out of his room, gentlemen.”

Winston accepted this at face value, shepherding his son off to his room. Derek looked back over his shoulder, his mobile face mirroring his internal worries. Napoleon stopped at the door just before the boy closed it. 

“She’ll be fine. Cheri is trustworthy.”

The boy looked up at him. “I know.” He looked back down the hallway. “But she’s right to be afraid. It’s not over.” He looked back up at Napoleon, an odd far-away look fading from his eyes. “I’m sure you’re right, sir. Good night.”

Napoleon nodded to his partner and disappeared into his room. Tonight had given him a great deal more to think about than he wanted. Between the gate beneath them and Derek’s peculiar comment, sleep was a long time coming.

It might have surprised him to know that his partner was not finding sleep easy to come by either. 

End Round 6


	9. Round 7

Morning rolled in on little cat feet … little gray, vision obscuring cat feet of a fluffy medium gray cat lying down on the newspaper. Angel Island was shrouded in fog. Cheri entered the sitting room to see Derek gazing out the window, or possibly just staring at his own reflection since there was little to see.

“Visibility: Zero,” she noted and smothered a laugh as the boy jumped. “Sorry, thought you heard me come in,” she apologized with a grin as he turned to see who had joined him. 

“Oh. Hello. Good morning. Fog.”

“I noticed. Not the sort of thing I’d want to be wandering around in.” How very opportune, she thought, every horror movie with people trapped on an island in the fog reeling off in her head. “Good thing we’re not in a Hammer Film.”

Derek grinned back at her. “Oh, very,” he agreed.

“You watch Hammer Films?”

That got a guilty look. “Father doesn’t approve. He says they glorify the evils of the world.” He rolled his eyes slightly.

“You don’t share that opinion?”

“I think they’re silly. But great fun, as well. I mean, they’re not real, are they? They’re just make-believe. People enjoy them because they’re … they’re … not …” He seemed to lose the words at that point.

“Because they take things that “go bump” and not only put faces on them, but make them stoppable. No matter how powerful, the bad guy loses … if only for the moment,” she modified the statement considering how many times Dracula had returned from the ashes courtesy of the ingenuity of Hammer’s script people.

“Even Dracula,” he took up her thought. “Though it is good he is not real. An evil that returned and returned …” He shook his head. “That would be very bad.”

“Ah, but there’s always a hero handy, non?”

He laughed in agreement. “Yes. Always a hero. Some of them very stupid. They would not survive if it was real.”

“Probably not. Hungry?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s go raid the kitchen.”

They met Illya and Napoleon coming down the stairs and invited the gentleman to join them in the kitchen.

“Are we allowed to raid the kitchen?” Napoleon inquired as they followed her.

“Do you see our host?”

“No.”

“Or the other Cheri?”

“No. How is she, by the way?”

Cheri sighed. “She’ll be OK. Just got a little over-stimulated and had a hellacious nightmare.”

“You certainly acted swiftly. Did you notice Caleb never showed?”

She looked back at him. “He’s probably used to it. Apparently she goes through cycles. He thinks she needs to get through the problem on her own now.”

“So we interfered,” he noted wryly.

“Would you want to be left in a nightmare? Ah, kitchen!” She made a beeline for the pantry and the huge refrigerator. “Goodies!” she exclaimed a she started pulling out leftovers.

“May I be of service?” The butler startled everyone with his inquiry.

“Is there a cook?”

“Only in the evening, Miss. The master and Miss Yuconovich are not often here during the day. Allow me.” In short order he had set out such cold items as could be turned into excellent sandwiches and introduced Cheri and Napoleon to the stovetop. 

“You’re phenomenal,” Cheri complimented, pretending to ignore his pleased look. “Scrambled eggs anyone?”

Winston and Caleb wandered in as the eggs, light and fluffy, were spooned onto plates. Cheri handed a plate to each of them and gestured to the last of the unoccupied seats around the kitchen table. “Good morning.”

“Good morning.” Caleb gave her an odd look as he accepted the plate. Maybe he wasn’t used to guests taking over his kitchen.

Breakfast passed with little conversation as eggs, sandwiches and coffee took the edge off everyone’s hunger and some of the chill creeping in from outside. The quite able butler shooed everyone out when they finished, refusing Cheri’s offer to help clean up.

“Really, Miss. And what would you have me do while you worked?” 

“I’m gone. Here, I’ll take a tray to the sleepyhead.”

*****************

Upstairs, the other Cheri awoke feeling strangely light. She remembered the nightmare. Maman practically frothing at the mouth, screaming at her, damning her with every other word, the leather belt in her hands lashing out again and again as she was forced to pay penance for sins she did not remember committing. Abomination. Demon. Lilith. Jezebel. Jade. Unnatural. The litany was endless.

Normally she was depressed the next day. This was different. She stretched under the covers, enjoying the feel of the crisp sheets. There was a tap at her door just before it opened. She grabbed the sheets to her, eyes going wide until she realized it was her double walking in with a tray. How thoughtful. How strange that she would bring her breakfast. The woman shot her a gamin grin and she responded with a timid smile. How different they were for being so much alike.

Memories filtered back of a soft voice murmuring soothing nothings. Russian and French and English in a mix as she calmed. She gave the other a puzzled look as she sat up and smoothed the covers so the agent could set the tray down. “You know.” It wasn’t a question. With total clarity, she knew that she had no secrets from this one and was unsure whether she should be terrified or relieved.

“I can extrapolate. Abomination. We have that in common. I don’t think my Maman was quite as crazy as yours.”

“We are the same, aren’t we?”

“Not quite. But close. In my version, Papa died of influenza. Maman walked away leaving my sister with me and my 2 year old brother to take care of. I think you’re version was not as easy to weather.”

“No.” She looked bleak. “No. Papa did not die, that, at least, is better. But he left. He took Alexei and left. He had to.” Her eyes filled with tears at the memory. “He had to,” she repeated to herself.

Warm arms slid around her and held as she again dealt with losing the only bright thing in her life. “Shhh. It’s OK. … well, maybe it’s not OK, but you survived. You’re strong, she’s gone and you’re … saving the world.”

Two sets of emerald eyes met in understanding. 

“You … you know. You ….”

“Shhh.” Cheri laid a finger across her lips. “Not that the walls are inclined to have ears here, but let’s take it as agreed, OK?”

The other nodded. “Not something to bruit about. You cooked?”

“Solo and I did the eggs. What’s his name, the butler, helped put the rest of it together for us. So, eat. I’m gonna go weed out your wardrobe.”

“What??”

End Round 7


	10. Round 8

The morning wore on with no indication of lifting fog. Tendrils of moisture twisted about the house weaving a blanket of silence. As long as the fog kept them socked in, there was no way to get from the island to the mainland. Caleb called the ferry base to find if the ferry was running on time only to be told that the service was suspended until the bay cleared. 

He looked resigned as he dropped the receiver back in the cradle. “We’re stranded. The boat isn’t equipped for heavy fog. Weather report says the entire bay is fogged in.”

Napoleon and Illya traded looks. Unfortunately, they could not blame THRUSH for the weather, much as they might like to do so. “ The house party from Hell,” Napoleon murmured. 

Illya looked long suffering at the joke, then frowned. “Where are the ladies?”

“Upstairs, still. Cheri had a rough night … His Cheri,” he corrected himself abruptly. It was very confusing having two of them under the same roof.

“Perhaps we should check on them?”

“Perhaps you should simply wait for us to appear,” their Cheri advised from the stairway. 

It was double-take time. They weren’t identical. After a short scrutiny, it was easy to tell them apart. The agent still looked younger than the resident Cheri, but the change was startling. The woman looked more relaxed than she had since they met her. Even Caleb responded to the difference.

The jangling of the front door bell broke up the mutual admiration society. With an exchange of looks, Caleb went to open the door only to be intercepted by Wharton, the butler, moving majestically into place. On the doorstep, looking more wilted than dapper, was Giles Faversham. Behind him loomed Royke Darnall, his face darkened with recent bruises. Before Wharton could inquire as to their purpose, the people behind them shoved them into the house.

Professor de la Vega Ayala crossed the threshold exuding an aura of being insufferably pleased with himself. He was accompanied by the luscious pale haired woman both Illya and Napoleon recognized from the photograph upstairs. In person she was just as luminous as her photograph, but there was something in the eyes that set off warning bells in both men.

Caleb muttered strange words under his breath and tossed one of the golden elder signs onto the floor between the two THRUSH agents and Ayala. The archaeologist shied back from the sign, throwing up his hands in front of his face and taking several steps back into the fog. The girl scowled at the now glowing amulet.

“Papa, what is it?” she asked in a frightened voice.

“Elder Sign,” Darnall identified it for her, pulling Faversham farther into the house and away from Ayala and his adopted daughter. He looked to Caleb who was at the foot of the staircase, blocking the women from coming down and looking prepared to fight or flee, depending on which should become a viable option. “Get them out of here. Ayala’s people have the place surrounded.”

“How the hell did they get here?” Cheri demanded. 

Darnall looked confused by the question. “What?”

“The fog? You did notice the fog, didn’t you?”

His head swung back toward the doorway, like a dog trying to pick up a confused scent trail. “Fog,” he repeated. “Yes, fog. They brought the fog with them,” he answered her in a hollow voice and shuddered. “There are things in the fog.” 

“Not good. Do we head up or down?” she asked, turning her attention to Caleb and his Cheri.

“Up,” the other woman responded. “Down is … dangerous.”

“Guys, the lady says down is dangerous. Shall we head up before the Dr. and his contingent figure out how to get past that amulet? … Shit.” She took the stairs two at a time downward, slid under Caleb’s outstretched arms and grabbed Wharton just as the blonde reached for him. “Not today, sweetie.” 

She pivoted Wharton out of the way and kicked the door closed, knocking the girl outside into the fog with her father. Without thinking, she latched the door and shoved the amulet to the threshold. The snarling shrieks on the other side told her it was the right thing to do, even if she didn’t entirely understand it.

She turned to Caleb. “The other entrances aren’t covered, are they?”

“Actually, they are. Wharton, get the rest of the staff to the safe room.” The big man inclined his head and moved away much more swiftly than he had arrived. “Gentlemen .. Where’s Derek?” he snapped. 

Everyone looked around at once, realizing the boy was not with them. Winston finally looked worried about his son and started for the back of the house. Caleb caught his arm, holding him back. “The other entrances are not as strongly held. Let Cheri take you to the armory. Then we’ll fight back.”

“My son …” Winston objected.

“ I’ll find him,” the agent spoke up. She looked at her partners and shrugged her shoulders. “I’m smaller and less obvious. Besides, I think I know where to look. I’ll meet you upstairs.”

Neither man wanted to let her go. Both had to acknowledge she was less obvious than they were. Napoleon nodded. “Be careful.”

“Middle name,” she shot back brightly and headed for the ground floor library.

They all heard glass smashing around the house as they headed up the stairs. The two agents wondered what sort of armory a man like Caleb might keep.

mfumfumfu

 

Cheri dashed back to the library door, stopped to listen for any indication of a breech on the other side and whirled, gun in hand to face Darnall and Faversham. Darnall stood fast, staring into the barrel of her gun about half an inch from his face. Cheri tried not to  
giggle at the slightly cross-eyed look he achieved trying to focus on her and the gun.

"What the fuck?" she asked.

"You need protecting," came the answer to her cryptic query.

"I need protecting? The boy needs protecting. He's the best future the Legacy can have." She eased the door open and stepped inside. The first thing they noticed was the incredible silence. Glass and wood could be heard breaking elsewhere in the house, but the library was both inviolate and completely without any sound beyond their breathing  
and adrenalin enhanced heartbeats. Cheri could see what looked like storm lashed branches hitting the floor to ceiling windows.

Bullet proof glass? But even that did not explain why it was quiet, like the eye of the storm or the center of a silence spell. Cheri shook her head to clear it of that thought, ignoring the earlier evidence of the functioning of the Elder Sign Caleb threw at their attackers. "That's unreal. That is so unreal," she voiced the thoughts of all three.

Taking a quick look around, she risked calling for the boy. His response came from above her and down one of the shadowed stacks. Followed by the two apparently unarmed THRUSH agents, she went toward the answering sound.

"Hi."

Derek looked down from his perch on a ladder near the top of one of the tall bookcases. He smiled, then frowned at the two men. "What's happening?" he asked, suddenly cluing in to something being wrong. "Where's my father?" He slid down the outer rail of the ladder to join them on the floor.

"He's OK. Caleb's taking everyone else to the armory. Let's see if we can get you there without getting caught by crazy cultists."

"Cultists?" His eyes strayed to the windows and widened at the activity outside. "Cheri … There's no sound," he told her in a hushed voice.

"I know," she answered his observation of the obvious. She caught his serious look and re-evaluated the situation as her hand stopped just short of pushing the latch on the door. "Oh." Such an inadequate word sometimes. "The library's … what’s the word? Warded?” Derek nodded. “That's why the windows aren't breaking and there's no noise. We're safer here than outside."

"I believe so," Derek agreed. "What happened?"

"Ayala and his daughter brought the fog," Darnall offered. His face looked haunted. "And more."

"That's enough," Faversham snapped, some of his authority returning. "Fog is an atmospheric condition." Darnall turned that gaze on his superior who then sputtered to a halt. "All right, it's a little strange that the only place fogged in is Angel Island."

"The girl's a Romany," Cheri offered. "Some of them have abilities. Not that creating fog has ever been one I knew about."

Derek, deep in thought during this discussion, brightened for a moment, then frowned again. "Likely Ayala thinks he's made a deal with one of the Old Ones."

"Does the name Dagon ring a bell?"

That wide-eyed look was back. This kid knew too damn much about things that not even adults were comfortable knowing. "Dagon, Father Dagon, legendary sea god. Father Dagon and Mother Hydra. Not quite as bad as some of the others, but definitely not a friend to mankind. Secretly worshipped in some backwaters of Polynesia and … on the coast of Maine …" He shot Cheri a sheepish grin. "My father is not a fan of Mr. Lovecraft, but I find him a relief some times. He steps outside the …" he faltered looking for words.

"Moribund Legacy boundaries?" Cheri offered as something crashed against the door from outside. Instead of the sharp sound she would have expected, it was muffled and hollow. One eyebrow rose at the sound. "OK. The door holds as well. Oh my." The door shimmered briefly and subsided. "It doesn't like the battering ram they're using. Come on, there's got to be an alternate route out of here. The Legacy isn't likely to sit still and wait for the enemy to break through." Her eyes fell on Faversham who was regarding the door in odd fascination. "Nor do I feel that your father was likely to do so. Any ideas?"

"What?" Faversham started when she spoke to him. "Ideas? I'd like to kill the lot of them."

"Which them? And right now, we need out of here and to get back to the other troops."

Faversham snorted. "Troops." He looked around, counted off bookcases and set off with a nod. "Come on."

He led the way to the far end of the room where a double door set in a very deep lintel led to the gardens. Next to the door was a bookcase with ornate carving over every inch of it. Faversham counted twists of the lintel up from the floor, then removed a book from the shelf aligned with it. The case shifted forward slightly and slid to the side revealing an opening. He gestured them through, shoving Cheri before him as the silence was shattered, along with all the windows.

The door next to them slammed open to admit wind, rain and tendrils of fog. Darnall threw himself against the case as it shifted back into place and he realized Faversham was staying behind to make certain the invaders did not follow them immediately.

"No!"

Cheri's hand on his arm brought him around, his face contorted in anger. "He's buying us time. They're after something or someone. I don't think they'll kill him. Not yet. Let's get to the others and see what we can do."

Her voice of reason received a mute nod. Darnall followed them, tense and wary as they worked their way through the walls and upstairs. They could hear the muffled sounds of footfalls and other things as they went, staying as silent as they could.

They came to a branch in the passage. They could hear gunfire and something else to the right, so they went that way and came to what looked like a dead end. It was Derek who located the catch to the hidden door. Together, he and Cheri eased the door open a crack. They were in a room neither recognized, although Cheri was more familiar with the trio of computer monitors and keyboards on the desks. 

"Recognize this?" she whispered to Derek who shook his head in answer. "Me neither. Come on." She stepped into the room, looking around at the various artifacts and books scattered on the walls and on shelves. "It's a research center."

"I thought the library …" Derek started to object before he caught on. "The library is for show. It has good books, the ones you might expect to find if you knew what to look for, but this is the true heart of the house."

"Let's hope Fav isn't persuaded to give them the entrance," Cheri added as she crossed the room to the door. She could not figure out exactly where this room was. She knew there wasn't enough space between any of the rooms she had seen to hide this one. She was certain that this room was somehow hidden from guests who were not a part of the Legacy. Taking a deep breath and releasing it slowly, she eased the door open as they had the previous one and uttered a silent prayer of thanks for well-oiled hinges as she peeked out into the back of a tapestry.

"Wall hanging," she identified it to the two behind her. With equal caution, she edged along the wall behind the hanging and chanced a look at the hallway. So far, it was clear. She could hear sounds of a struggle nearby, thuds and someone yelling words that sounded whipped away by wind, although there was no wind up here right now.

She returned to the door. "Derek, you're best chance is to stay in here. I don't think they're looking for you or Darnall … shit …" Something gelatinous and incredibly strong encircled her and yanked her backwards into the hallway, pausing only as she hit the ceiling with a thud.

Derek and Darnall charged after her, the latter pulling two swords from the wall as he passed while Derek tried desperately to recall the exact words of a spell of protection he'd found a few weeks earlier. The fight from upstairs crashed through the ceiling as Darnall sliced through the tentacle and Derek fired off a sting of Latin that apparently did something. A bright golden glow formed between Cheri and the rest of the tentacle as she fell to the floor. The part around her fell to dust as she landed hard. The remainder retreated into the ceiling, on the other side of the glow that stopped just in the hole left by the retreating tentacle.

Cheri caught her breath and scrambled to her feet as Ayala's daughter stepped up behind Derek, running one arm around him and holding a very sharp knife to the boy's throat with her other hand. Dammit! This was no way to win this fight!

Everything came to a halt.

"Very good. You will all behave in a most exemplary fashion, or the boy dies …. Very, very slowly and very painfully." 

mfumfumfu

Up stairs, Caleb and his companions were fighting the bulk of the thing that grabbed Cheri. The pulsating, amorphous blob extruded tentacles at will, smashing everything it came into contact with while attempting to grab all of them. Napoleon and Illya quickly understood that bullets did nothing to the monstrous entity and grabbed swords that cut through the gelatinous tentacles. Neither swords nor Caleb’s incantations seemed to make any headway toward destroying the thing.

Something Caleb lay on the floor staring at the flotilla of bright flashes in front of his eyes and vaguely wondering if his diaphragm was permanently paralyzed. He blinked to clear his vision, turning his head slightly. That hurt. So did most of the rest of him. He was fairly certain that Cheri and the two agents had not fallen through with him. There seemed to be no more fallen bodies besides his. 

Fighting nausea the probability of passing out, he rolled over and came to his feet. A young woman he recognized as Ayala’s daughter held a knife to Derek’s throat. That was not good. He shook his head to clear the muzzy thoughts and immediately regretted it, his vision blurring as his head pounded. Both caused bile to rise in his throat. Swallowing hard, he tried to take stock of what was happening.

“Much better,” the blonde purred, still holding the boy tightly. She smiled. It wasn’t a friendly gesture. “Father. I have the Legacy brat and our targets. Do come along. Ah-ah, not thoughts of rescue. I will gut this kid if you don’t do exactly as I say.”

Derek looked frightened, his eyes searching for some sign that there was more to this confrontation than the woman holding him. Then he straightened. Caleb thought he might be using his father’s stupid line of thought to hold himself together. 

“What do you want?” Caleb asked, his voice a little shaky.

“You. And her,” she nodded to the agent Cheri nearby. “You have been a thorn in our sides for long enough. She,” the mad blue eyes focused on Cheri, “She has a destiny to fulfill.”

“Let me guess,” Cheri cut in. “You’re planning on opening a gate to the void, letting something creepy in to destroy humanity and I’m the gateway.”

That seemingly hit the nail on the head. “You are to be honored above all. You will bear the young of our Lord.”

“Oh, for cryin’ … And your reward for all this? Let me guess, dominion over what’s left of mankind.”

“You would not understand.”

“Like hell, I wouldn’t.” Cheri sounded old and tired as she let her back slide down the wall until she was sitting. “Ubermench. Super men, a thousand times have I heard the refrain, a thousand times has it died the death it deserves. The Old Ones Lie. Mankind has only one future under them, death and the destruction of this world.” She looked around at the girl. “There is no power for humanity in alliance with the Old Ones. For whatever reason, the Elder Gods saw fit to toss them out of this reality. Perhaps they indulged themselves too much, I don’t know. I don’t think I could stay sane and know what the trespasses of the Old Ones were. But I do know this. There is no future with them. No power, no glory, nothing but death and the cold dead abyss should they arise again.”

 

”You lie!” It was practically a shriek.

Cheri turned her gaze on Ayala. “Do I? Or haven’t you told her? Do you fear her that much, old man?”

Center stage moved to the archaeologist. “What do you mean?” he asked. 

Oh, he tried to braze it out, but it wasn’t playing well. The girl’s eyes locked on him, demanding answers. The knife in her hand shifted slightly, her hold on the boy loosening. 

Like thought, Derek pulled away from her and ran. She turned the knife and threw it after him, a careless gesture. She didn’t count on Cheri tripping him. The knife sliced through the space he had occupied to hit the far wall, six inches of blade sliding into the plaster above the expensive walnut wainscoting.

She didn’t lose her focus. “What does she mean, Father? What is she saying?”

Cheri looked from one to the other, a horrid thought taking possession of her as she realized the girl knew only what the Professor told her. Wondering if she could turn the girl’s ignorance and arrogance to their advantage, she threw out the first thing that came to mind. With a snort of derisive laughter, she accused her of betraying her tribe.

Tamara whirled to face the black haired woman, denying it. “I was not there. I would not .. They were my family!” True Romany attitude on tribe and family. “I was not there. They came. They slaughtered … everyone,” her voice fell to soft horror as the vision of her devastated encampment rose before her. “Everyone,” she repeated. “I did not betray them. I would not.”

“Anyone can be broken,” Cheri reminded her.

“True. But I was not broken. I was not taken prisoner. I knew nothing of what happened until I returned. If it were not for Father …” Her face mirrored her thoughts as she turned back to the Professor. 

Upstairs, watching through the hole in the floor, Napoleon and his companions all came to the same conclusion. The Professor had engineered the death of Tamara’s tribe. But how could they turn that to their favor?

End Round 8


End file.
